Wings of War
by Storymaster Caith
Summary: Movie and Book verse. The battle of the Hornburg told from the point of view of Gimli, son of Gloin. mild LegolasGimli.


Title: To War  
Author: Caith  
Author's Email: Gimli/Legolas  
Rating: PG  
Summary: Gimli's POV at the battle of Helm's Deep. Mixes both facts from movieverse and bookverse.

They are not prepared.

I look upon them with the eyes of a captain, albeit a Dwarven one, and I know that they are not prepared. These men are not soldiers. They are not rohirrim, terrors on horseback. They are not elves, swift and silent death. They are not dwarves, a furious wave of anger and sound. Legolas knows this and tells Aragorn so. I look into the eyes of the king of men and see bitter truth. Since the passing of the Steward's son, Aragorn son of Arathorn has finally seen the light. Rivendell has sheltered him, but even I can see that his ears are not pointed. Elessar is a man, and will always be a man. He declares that he will die as one.

_Not in this battle, your majesty. Not if I can help it._

Mahal, how I wish I had my soldiers. Stalwart fighters, all of them, my legion, no doubt growing fat and bored while their captain gallivants around on a quest to save the world with mad elves, bottomless hobbits, and irritated wizards. Watching these men prepare for war, I calm myself. My legion is not here, and when war marches on my mountain I will not be there to guide them. It is a good possibility that I shall not live through this night.

Fine. If such is to be my fate then I welcome it on the black wings of the ravens who are the kin of Dwarves. If I am to die here at Helm's Deep it will be a blessing, for my no doubt shallow grave will be upon the rocks that make up this place.

The stone comforts me. The firstborn believe that Aule did not give his children music, for we cannot hear the sounds of trees. That is not so. The firm rock of the keep beats, like drums, all around me. Each beat tells me the difference of the stone, each subtle slap tells me what stones are young, what stones are old. Even the metalwork in this place recognizes that I am here. The golden hall sang when I walked within.

We are ready, they call, countless swords and spears and deadly arrows. We are prepared.

Good, I call to them. Good.

The elves led by the Marchwarden of Lorien are a welcome addition. They line the walls, living legends making a last hurrah. I recognize their looks of indifference. It is nothing I have not faced before, and so I do not approach them. Standing on the wall beside the son of Mirkwood, I am the only Khazad. Alone, like the seven fathers who bore my kin. Even now, I remember mirromere. Looking down upon that deep pool I saw him, sleeping in the crevice of a rock. His golden hair remained untouched in the current, and his bright golden eyes were closed, but I reached out for Durin and he reached back.

_I go to war_, I told him.

_**Fight well, my many times great grandson. **_

_I shall. _

Standing before the legions now, I think of my mountain. I think of the quiet silence of the earth, of the burning of the fires, of the deep beat of the drums that makeup the lifeblood of my home. Standing on this strong wall, surrounded by the singing of stones, I can close my eyes and imagine that I am not so far from Erebor.

The beating of the uruks brings me out of my reverie, and I look down upon them with contempt. I'm not sure where I placed my helm, but I realize that it is not on my head. My hair is coming loose from it's braid, swaying slightly with the wind, not yet soaked by the rain. I know that my eyes are shining like those of a cat as I look down.

An arrow is fired, who shot it I know not; I know only that it was not an elf, for in my battles with them I have yet to see one miss his mark. An Uruk falls, and all Mordor breaks loose.

It is a gristly game that Legolas and I invented, counting our kills; but it keeps our minds off the thought of death and allows us to have our competitions. As I run my battle axe through the middle of an orc I think back to Lothlorien, where first I became friends with the princling. I wonder how he would react to that nickname if he knew I, too, were a prince- of the Seventh house of Erebor, A Lord under the Mountain. He doesn't know this and if Mahal loves me, he will let me keep it that way, for a time at least.

Three orcs later and something is wrong, something is terribly wrong-

Thump. Thump. Thumpthump. Thumpthump. Thumpthumpthump-

THE WALL.

"GET AWAY FROM THE WALL!"

I expand my lungs to their greatest capacity, praying to Mahal that it will be enough for even men's battle filled ears to hear. I cut down uruks mechanically as I feel the wall screaming in warning, though none but me can hear it.

Orthanc fire. We use it often in the mines, small doses specially rolled. But this is no small measured dose, and I can feel it's wrongness even from my position. Aragorn yells to Legolas, who fires once, twice, at the uruk running with a torch; both arrows hit home, but the loathsome creature continues to run.

The explosion of the wall is akin to a blast of dragonfire, killing men, elves, and uruks indiscriminately. The vile beasts flow like black blood from a wound, filling the first gate of the keep. The elves continue to battle, though more are retreating to places where their specialized bows can hack down the enemy. I look up and see the edge of a crimson cape.

The marchwarden and I are none too different. Had we met in Erebor, I too would have required he go blindfolded. His arrogance stings, but if I know the masks of Dwarves then he is not as he seems. These are the things that go through my mind as I fight my way to him, seeing that he is outnumbered. His long elven blade is flashing like moonlight, and a snarl is painted on his fair face.

I see the uruk coming up behind him; I know that there is not much time. I grip a smaller axe at my side and loose. I worry not over my target, for I have been throwing these axes for years, yet I am not fast enough. The creature manages a knockout blow on the marchwarden's head before my blade splices him from gut to groin.

I reach the marchwarden as soon as another elf. This one is familiar.. Oropher, orophi.. Orophin! Haldir's younger brother.

"Take him and get to the keep." I order, hoping against hope that the general prejudice of elves will be forgotten in this battle. He looks at me strangely, for in the heat of battle I have spoken in elvish, a language I am thought not to have an affinity for. When he still stands there, I glare at him. "Take the Marchwarden and RUN, you twitterpated fool!" I snarl, turning to cut down another orc. When I manage to get my eyes behind me he is gone, running lightly over the battlefield with his brother in his arms.

Good.

The battle rages on and on. I am pushed into the caves and for a small time I find peace. They are lovely, almost ethereal. They even rival the great beauty of Lorien, though I would never say as much to Legolas. Eomer of the mark comes to tend to my head- I was not aware that I had a wound, though the blood dripping into my eyes says otherwise. I allow him his fussing and then grab at my axe. There is more bloody work to do this night, and may Mahal curse me if I don't hew the neck of every orc possible.

The battle is won. How marvelous to say it, the battle is WON. I look out on the devastation and know that it was a high price to pay. The bodies of the men of the mark mingle with those of elves and orcs. It is enough to break a Dwarf's heart. No elf, no matter how stubborn, finicky, or stuck up, should be taken from Arda before their time. Standing on the battlefield I say a quick prayer to them, hoping that once released from their bodies, the souls of the Eldar can understand the language of my people.

I hear Legolas' cry. I turn and smile at him.

"Forty two, Master Legolas! Alas, my axe is notched; the forty second had an iron collar around it's neck.  
How fared you?"

"You have surpassed my score by one." He says in a voice that trembles. "But I do not begrudge you the game, so glad am I to see you on your legs!" I look into his eyes and see something that frightens me, yet the euphora of battle has not left and I cannot help but say, "The score matters not, master elf, so long as you stand by my side and sing irritatingly once again." He smiles at me and looks out on the damage. "So many lives lost." He whispers, and his green eyes reflect pain. "Is this what it takes, to truly destroy evil?"

"Aye, my friend." I say, shouldering my axe, "This is what it takes. May Mahal light their way and lead them to the great hearth."

The men start gathering the bodies of the fallen. Those elves who survived the onslaught separate their dead, building a mass grave near the forest that had simply appeared within sight of Helm's Deep. The trees are calm now, but I decide to avoid them. When you find yourself in a hole, stop digging, or so my Grandam would say.

I see Orophin among those separating the dead, grief on his features. Legolas helps, and I let them be, making busywork with the numerous weapons left abandoned on the battlefield. I retrieve my two throwing axes, ripping one viciously from the uruk who had tried to kill Haldir. When the sun is low in the sky I make my way back to the keep, where the wounded and living celebrate a bitter victory.

I see a small fire burning near the hurons, and I know that Legolas will join me not this night. I hear their singing, as haunting as the sound of wind through an empty cavern, and even more beautiful. I look up to the night sky and smile at the stars. Perhaps she they call Elbereth smiles on me, perhaps she knows not that I exist, but Gimli Gloinson of the Seventh house lives still, and is prepared to fight another day.

I inquire of Aragorn whether or not there was any serious injury to the Marchwarden. He tells me that the elf has a lump on his head the size of a hobbit-melon, and is annoyed that he had missed out on all the fighting. I bathe and dress in tunic and breeches, then seek the winestore. The men have not altogether depleted the stock and so I grab a bottle and make my way through the keep.

He is in one of the old storage rooms, set up as a private dwelling, for a short time. I enter, making sure to make a lot of noise. He is watching the distant fire from the window. He turns to look at me, grey eyes almost unfocused, filled with pain and a sort of sad triumph.

"Come to disturb me with your loud breathing, Master Dwarf?" he asks. I simply smirk, setting the bottle and two cups down on the bedside table, pulling up a rickety chair. "It is the custom of men," I explain, "To drink after a battle and tell stories of those lost, to ease the pain and lace the infection. I'm sure the traditions of elves and dwarves are much too different to share, yet I find this a happy medium, don't you?"

He looks at me with such a face as to be almost priceless. Then he laughs, tossing back his head in mirth. "Surely, the Lady Galadriel choose right when she put you in her favor," he manages through his chuckles, "For never before have I met a dwarf who would willingly drink with an elf!"

"I seriously doubt you've met a Dwarf before me, Marchwarden." I say with a raised brow. He smiles. "I have seen Dwarves, although most from far away. So yes, I suppose you are the first Dwarf that I have really met." He looks out the window once more. "So many lost."

"Legolas said the same." I reply, watching the fire with him. "Yet it is not for nothing that your elves died, Haldir of Lorien, nor is it your fault that so many sought Mandos. Men are good creatures, but we both know that they need a leg up. Besides, the time of the elves is ending. This is a sort of last hurrah. Already Eomer and his men compose songs of your deeds. You will not soon be forgotten."

Haldir looks at me once more, his grey eyes level. "You are not at all what I expected, Master Dwarf. Nothing at all."

"And you are not as I expected, Marchwarden." I reach for the wine, a good deep red, and pour two draughts. Handing one to him, I reach out. "To unexpected surprises, friendship, and a future." I said. He looks at the wine, then at me. Our cups clink together. "Here here." He says with a smile.

We drink.

I stand before the Deeping Wall, looking the damage over with the eyes of a stonemason. It will not be an easy fix, nor will it be quick. This is a crushing blow to Rohan, for the Deep is one of it's main defenses, and I weep at the pain of the stone. It is quick to assure me that with careful chiseling and the right touch, it will stand once more.

I hope so. I say to it.

I hear the soft pat of a pair of boots behind me. He has stopped being noiseless as he walks; I have learned to lengthen my strides. My heart sinks, yet rises at the same time. When had this happened?

"Orophin tells me Haldir is fast asleep with an empty wine bottle beside his bed." He says, tossing his onyx hair from his face. "He also tells me that it is rare for Haldir to get into his cups, and that there were two glasses."

I shrug. "What would you have me do, elf? If I hadn't stayed with him the fool would have tried to get out to the graves on his own. The last thing the Lorien Company needs is to carry their captain on a litter."

"Would you not have helped him?"

MY blood chills. "It would have broken him, Legolas." I say softly, turning to look at my…friend. "At least now he returns to the wood he loves so much."

He is silent. Then, "It is a strange thing that has happened to us, Gimli. Not two months ago I would have laughed myself silly at the thought of befriending a Dwarf."

"I probably would be facing the dwarrow-din."

"Dwarrow din?"

"Dwarf Court." I explain with a smile. "Had anyone told me that I would look up to emerald eyes for my happiness, I would have become a kinslayer."

He does not laugh, though a smile graces his lips and eyes. Instead, he focuses on the fresh bandage around my head, placed there by Aragorn when the fighting was done and we had time for such comforts. He looks haunted. Against my better judgement, I reach out and touch his arms. "Elf?"

He falls to his knees and wraps me in a long limbed embrace.

"I thought I had lost you, when I could not find you at my side." He says, and I can feel hot tears soaking into the shoulder of my tunic. "When you reappeared, I almost did this right then, but I decided it was not the time. I know better now."

"Legolas?"

I cannot breathe.

"The present is all we are guaranteed, Gimli. Even I am given little else- look at the elves of Lorien. This must be said, and it must be said now, lest I loose heart and cannot find the words again." He pulls back, and blood roars in my ears as he looks at me, those emerald eyes glimmering in the early dawn.

"I love you, Gimli Gloinson, child of Aule." He says hoarsely. "I will love you for eternity."

No.

This cannot be, it should not be!

"Legolas…"

He turns his head. "Hate me if you wish, my dearest one." He says, and the tears begin anew, "But I shall follow where you go, and I shall guard your back for as long as you should live."

_**Fool Elf, I could never hate you! **_

**_I am walking through my memories. The mallorn trees are bright gold and beautiful. The elves have not bothered us all day, whether out of respect for Legolas or disgust for me, I know not. He stops and looks up, at the sunlight filtering through the trees. "Are they not beautiful, Gimli?" he says, laughing and turning in circles. "Perhaps not as valuable as gold, but just as precious in the eyes of the beholder!" _**

_**I love you. **_

I grab him, pull him into my arms. He squeaks and clings to me as though I were a buoy on the water. "I will grow old, Legolas." I whisper. "I will die, and you will mourn. You belong across the sea, with the rest of your foolish, silly kind."

He gently runs his fingers down my back. "I have long been old enough to decide such things for myself, Gimli Lockbearer. I have chosen you."

I pull back and gaze at him. A part of me wants to send him away, to beg him to not think on this anymore, but it is a very small part. The rest of me is filled with fire, of a sort I do not know. I reach for words, trying to describe the burning in my breast.

Contentment.

I am content.

"Dwarves only choose one love in their lives." I say softly. He gazes at me with those huge emerald orbs and is quiet. "Sometimes we find our one, sometimes we live alone, sometimes we find our one but they will not accept us." I bring my mouth to his and, for the first time, our lips touch.

"I have found you, my one." I whisper softly. "And I will never willingly part with you."

He kisses me and all around I can hear the call of ravens,

_War! To War! Gimli Dwarf Prince, to War! _

_Yes,_ I think with a smile. _To War. But not alone. Not anymore. _


End file.
